“I grew up in Saratoga, and I used to fantasize about this house,” Barb says as the two waiters pass trays of hors d’oeuvres. “I wanted to live here so I could have the turret as my bedroom.”
“It’s romantic-looking, isn’t it?” I say, relieved I finally have something to contribute. “But it’s too small for a bedroom or even a little sitting room. I considered putting my desk there, but it’s awfully claustrophobic, so I’m working in a room off the kitchen.”
“So what’s the turret been used for?” Barb asks.
I laugh. “Perhaps just for keeping an eye on the neighbors. It’s empty, and I get the idea that it’s always been that way.”
“Maybe it’s haunted.” It’s Kim talking. For a moment I assume she’s being playful, but from across the room I see there’s no amusement in her eyes. What was that about? I wonder.
Derek Collins finally arrives, fifteen minutes late but apologetic. He’s attractive in a way that I can’t put my finger on and younger than I expected—probably no more than forty. Contrary to Guy’s prediction, he’s not in cords and a sweater, but rather jeans and a blue blazer, his longish brown hair brushed back and just skimming the rear of his shirt collar. He’s carrying a bouquet of yellow tulips.
“Oh dear,” he says, spotting the pink ones. “Is there such a thing as too many tulips—outside of Holland that is?”
“Not at all,” I tell him.
“I second that,” Barb says. “And I own a flower shop.”
I hand over the tulips to Conrad, requesting that he locate a vase. Guy introduces Derek to the other guests, and I see Kim take him in from head to toe.
As I sit back down again, I can practically feel the energy seeping out of me, as if I’m a pool float with a leak. I take two big gulps of water, hoping it will revitalize me. Guy catches my eye and smiles. Though I still feel slightly unsettled by our tiff, I realize it was probably good for us to force the issue out in the open. Now we can move on.
Just before eight Guy disappears briefly and returns to announce that dinner is ready. We make our way to the dining room. The lights have been lowered and the room is aglow with candlelight.
“How lovely,” Barb exclaims.
“My wife not only has a way with words,” Guy says, “but a way with a table.”
I return his smile, appreciative that he’d doing his best to make amends.
I’m at the opposite end of the table from Guy. Derek is to my left, which is a relief because he’ll be easy to talk to. He held his own during cocktails—even through the opera chat—and he has a natural warmth. Kim is to my right. Despite her earlier reticence, she turns out to be a talker but a different type than Barb. Her chatter, I soon realize, is more like sonar, used to suss out a person’s hot spots.
“Have you moved up here full-time now?” she asks as we start on our soup. It’s cream of asparagus and luscious.
“No, just for the summer actually.”
“What a shame. The fall is amazing here.”
“Oh, I know. But I have a couple of projects happening in New York in September. Plus, I’ll miss the city if I’m gone too long.”
“Really? New York just seems so gritty to me. I honestly don’t get why people love it.”
I let it go, and before I can work in a question for her, she’s on to the next one.
“What made you decide to write a book about choices?”
“There’s been some interesting research in recent years about how tough it is for us to make choices these days because of all the options we have. I thought it would be intriguing to come at it from a different angle. To find the common denominators among ten people who’d made life choices they were happy with. And the same thing with ten people who regretted the paths they took.”
She stares at me, her face expressionless, as if I’ve answered in Flemish and she hasn’t understood a word.
“Do you write every day?” she says at last.
“Um, I try to. Not the whole day. I’m usually just good for four or five hours and then my brain gives out.” I’m speaking about the past of course, in a galaxy far, far away.
“It must feel very isolating, being cooped up in a room like that. How do you manage?”
Is she always like this, I wonder, or has she just taken a look at my face and decided she doesn’t like me? Under other circumstances, I might have tossed a zinger her way, but I don’t have the mental energy. More importantly, she’s the wife of a donor, and I have to behave for Guy’s sake.
“It can be isolating, but I play music. Take breaks. Enough about me, though. Tell me about your kids. Guy says your son is an incredible hockey player.”